Merely Magic

by Patricia Rice

  She looked as if she might object. She no doubt hoped he would offer her marriage. She’d probably hoped she could wield her wiles, seduce him, and pass off any child Twane got on her as his. She was certainly young and attractive enough for most men to take on faith. But Drogo was no longer that naive, and she apparently interpreted the coldness of his expression correctly.

  She backed away. “Thank you, my lord. I am more than grateful and will attempt not to place too heavy a burden on your family.”

  “My carriage will be waiting outside in half an hour. See if you can pack discreetly,” he warned.

  Head bowed, she nodded and departed.

  Joseph bobbed out of the priest’s hole as soon as the door closed. “Hell’s gate, Ives. Dunstan will have you by the ballocks for that. Or more likely, his wife will.”

  To school his patience, Drogo drew a mental image of his castle tower, complete with velvet skies and twinkling stars and Ninian shining golden naked beneath them. Even if he couldn’t visit paradise in truth, his thoughts served him better than reality, for in his head, Ninian could be as brilliant in mind as in form.

  The thought relaxed him sufficiently not to follow his first impulse to throttle his half brother.

  “Your stay in Newgate has certainly extended your vocabulary,” he said dryly, giving up on the calculations on the desk in front of him. Propping his boots on the already scarred walnut desktop, he opened a drawer and produced a handful of sweetmeats, not rewarding Joseph with any. “Have you nothing better to do but eavesdrop?”

  The boy shrugged and dropped into the nearest chair. Despite his youth, he already possessed the wide shoulders of an Ives, and he twitched them nervously against the seat back. “I thought I’d guard your virtue. I saw her coming.”

  Drogo rolled his eyes at this eldest of his bastard brothers. At the moment, Joseph had chosen to ape him by refusing hair powder and wigs and going about in unadorned plain frock coats. Convenient for the family budget, at least. Too bad the dark curls softened the effect.

  “As my heir, it’s time Dunstan shared some of the burden.” Drogo popped a candy and dallied with the image of Ninian a little longer. Was she really superstitious enough to think him the devil? If he returned to Wystan, would she still be furious with him and refuse his bed? Or would her unpredictable humor have changed to prefer a try at becoming countess?

  Joseph slumped deeper into his chair. “Our father should have stopped while he was ahead. There’s too damned many of us and not enough to go around. I don’t know why you let Dunstan have the estate.”

  “Because he loves farming, and he’s my heir. His children will someday inherit it. Makes sense to me.”

  “How do you know I wouldn’t be good at farming?” Joseph muttered rebelliously.

  “Because you were raised in town and don’t know one end of a sheep from the other. How do you know you wouldn’t enjoy the military?”

  “Why did Dunstan and Ewen stay with your mother in the country and you didn’t?” he countered.

  Drogo sighed. Joseph had been but a lad of five when their father died. Not overly inquisitive, he’d always accepted their erratic family ties without question. Drogo supposed it was time his young brother began to question. He threw Joseph a walnut kernel from the mix. He missed.

  “That was the separation agreement the courts allowed. My father kept his heir, and my mother was allowed to raise Dunstan and Ewen. My mother was allowed one of the smaller farms as her residence if she did not come to London and interfere with my father and your mother. It happens all the time. Remember it when the time comes for you to consider marriage.”

  “Never!” Joseph replied vehemently. “I’ll not let any hellcat sink her claws in me. I might not be book fodder like you, but I’m not addlepated enough to saddle myself with whining women and clinging brats and courts demanding every last penny I earn.”

  “You’ve not earned any,” Drogo observed wryly. “Have you decided on the military or the priesthood?”

  Joseph scowled. “Are those my only alternatives?”

  “Well, we could apprentice you to a solicitor. Just think of all the blunt you could earn from us writing marriage settlements for a living.”

  “And separation agreements.” Gloomily, Joseph sought the missed kernel in the folds of his coat. “I don’t suppose there’s money to be made in architecture.”

  “The family never builds houses, and you’ll not get any other clients. You can’t draw worth a damn.”

  Joseph sighed as he located the treat and popped it in his mouth. “Might as well try your route, then. I’d rather grow rich in boredom than be shot at by red Indians.”

  “Smart choice. I’ll make the arrangements. Why don’t you tell Jarvis to send ’round the carriage?”

  “Damned good thing you never married, Ives,” Joseph drawled, standing up. “A wife would either pitch us all out on our ears, or run home to her mother after she discovered you with one of your tarts begging at your knees.”

  “Heaven forbid,” Drogo agreed fervently. “I have enough on my hands. Can you imagine what it would be like in the next generation if I had a brood of boys of my own plus whatever bastards the rest of you breed?”

  At thus being acknowledged as adult enough to breed bastards, Joseph brightened. “Can you imagine what would happen if an Ives had a girl?”

  “There’s Sarah,” Drogo was forced to point out.

  “Yeah, she ain’t even an Ives and look at what’s happened to her.”

  As Joseph idled out, Drogo contemplated the truth of his younger brother’s comment. Maybe the lad had a brain or two after all.

  Maybe God hadn’t given him children because he already had an entire family of them.

  ***

  Morosely, Ninian dug her fingers into the dead sludge of the burnside. No amount of manure or ashes had returned plant life to the part of the stream running near Wystan Castle. The banks were as barren and muddy as after the flood.

  The storm had wiped out the earl’s filter. It had been nearly two months, and he hadn’t returned to rebuild it. What had she expected? That the devil would repair his cruelty?

  Or that he’d be longing to see her again as much as she craved his presence?

  Knowing better than to think such thoughts, she picked her way upstream, searching for the lichen she’d discovered along a faster flowing part of the water. There was sickness in the village, but she lacked many of the fresh plants she needed to treat it. The flood had even taken her garden. She’d hoped to have accomplished more by now, to have restored health to the village so she might return home. But she couldn’t even restore health to the plants, and the villagers still turned their backs on her.

  The constant companionship of at least one of the ladies every time she entered town didn’t help. In the villagers’ narrow minds, she had returned to her own kind.

  She had, however, managed to save Lydie’s baby, both from childbirth and from Sarah’s plans to put her out for adoption.

  In these last months she’d learned more of Sarah’s controlling nature than she liked. Whatever foolishness Sarah might believe, Ninian had no intention of providing the earl with an heir by marrying him. And she certainly didn’t need anyone else dictating her future. Granny’s well-meaning manipulations had been sufficient for a lifetime.

  But the conservatory slowly growing behind the castle held her captive with expectation. Ninian used the excuse of Lydie’s infant to stay where she felt needed, and she let Sarah spin her idle fantasies in return for a reprieve from loneliness. She would no doubt pay for her laziness one day, but she hoped it would be when she was stronger.

  She turned down the path to her garden, knowing full well it annoyed the woman accompanying her.

  “You’re doing Lydie no favor,” Sarah scolded as Ninian stopped to dig another plant from the forest f
loor.

  “And you are a more meddling and manipulative witch than my grandmother ever was.” Ninian gently eased the root from the ground and into her basket.

  “I’m just trying to help,” Sarah protested. “Lydie’s family can’t take her back with a child. They’re telling everybody she’s visiting friends in Scotland. In a few weeks, she can go home and find a good husband.”

  “A wealthy one, you mean.” Ninian lifted a kitten from the hole she’d just dug and rubbed its furry face against her own. The cats followed her as much as Sarah did. She loved their easy acceptance. Selfish creatures, they only required feeding. “That should be Lydie’s decision, not yours.”

  “Lydie is sixteen, and too foolish to know what’s good for her. No man will take her with a bastard. She can keep the child and starve on the streets, or she can give the child a good home and start a new life for herself, a safe one, with a man who might come to love her. She’s very beautiful and quite lovable, you know.”

  Ninian sat back on her heels and wiped the dirt from her hands. “Men are not the solution to everything. Does Lord Ives threaten to throw her from the castle?”

  Sarah shrugged. “Drogo never threatens. But her parents can cause a scandal if they discover he’s protecting her.”

  Ninian tilted her head to look up at her. “And you’ll do anything to protect Drogo?”

  Sarah looked annoyed. “You see entirely too much. Hurry up, now. Claudia may have found another volume of family history by now.”

  Illness still ravaged the village, the crops had failed, and Ninian was no closer to a solution for her problems. She was certainly a failure as a witch.

  But lately, she had had reason to suspect she was far more successful at some things than others.

  If she wanted to escape Sarah’s tyranny, she had best do it soon.

  Thirteen

  August, 1750

  Ninian clung dizzily to the potting bench and blocked out Lydie’s chatter as she concentrated on remaining upright. Swimming in and out of consciousness, she forgot to clench her fingers and almost lost her grip. Her knees wobbled. She couldn’t force her legs to move.

  Lydie shoved a stool beneath her. “It hit me that way, too. I was afraid to stand up for a week.”

  Heart pounding erratically, Ninian sank on to the stool, not registering anything Lydie said. Three months, and the earl still hadn’t returned. She couldn’t wait any longer for him to help solve her problems. She’d have to do it on her own. She’d have to ignore Sarah’s hysterics over leaving. The ladies had comforted her when she needed friends, but she knew her duty. It was time to return to it.

  How could she possibly fix the burn by herself?

  “I’ll call Sarah,” Lydie said breathlessly. “She wanted to know the instant you quickened. So many women lose their babes in the first months, you know.”

  As Lydie departed, Ninian rested her head on her knees, just as Granny had taught her. The dizziness faded, replaced by what she had tried to deny.

  Lord Ives had possessed her and stolen everything she possessed in return, leaving her with something far more dangerous—his child.

  She carried the child of an Ives, of an earl, of a man she barely knew. In begetting this child, she’d lost the respect of the village and the only life she’d ever wanted. Had the begetting of the innocent soul in her womb been the cause of the ruination of Wystan?

  How would she raise a child who would be scorned by every person in the vicinity?

  “Ninian, are you well?”

  Sarah’s question seemed to come from a distance, but Ninian managed to nod her head. Maybe she would create her own village of unwed mothers, take Lydie and her babe home with her so she wouldn’t be alone.

  Not a chance. Sarah had plans for everyone. She would have to escape before the web tightened. She wouldn’t give up her child. Never, no matter what nonsense these London lunatics dreamed up.

  Taking Sarah’s arm, Ninian stood up. Her head still spun, but not badly. The morning sickness had taken much of her strength, but it shouldn’t last much longer. She’d be fine enough to return to her cottage any day now. To her empty cottage.

  But there was one thing she needed to know before she left. Turning to the young girl who had returned with Sarah, she asked, “You have heard nothing from your baby’s father?”

  “The father is a footman,” Sarah said scornfully, adding to Ninian’s small stockpile of information, relieving her more than she liked to admit. “The child belongs here among the peasants, despite her sentimental silliness.”

  “I want to keep her,” Lydie protested feebly. “She’s all I have that’s truly mine.”

  Sarah shrugged. “Then good luck finding employment to support her.” Her eyes narrowed as she turned to Ninian. “You’re pale. Come inside where it’s cool. I’ll not have you losing Drogo’s son.”

  At that blatant announcement of all she feared, Ninian stared in dismay at Sarah’s bland features until her vision narrowed and almost disappeared altogether. Swaying, she accepted Lydie’s guidance into the cool kitchen. How long had they known? They’d planned this. They’d as much as said so. Why? Did they wish to steal her child too?

  “I’ve written Drogo,” Sarah said placidly.

  Ninian swayed beneath this new blow. She’d told the earl? Catching the table, she lowered herself into a chair.

  As if she didn’t explode still another cannonball, Sarah continued, “He should be here to fetch you in a day or two.”

  Fetch her? The earl? May The Lady preserve her!

  Ninian’s gasp finally caught Sarah’s self-absorbed attention.

  “You thought we hadn’t noticed?” she asked incredulously. “You’ve not had a monthly since you arrived, and it’s hard to disguise your retching. Besides, the stars said you would carry his son.” Contentedly, she handed Ninian a teacup as she contemplated Drogo’s arrival. “It’s a pity he could not find someone with more town polish,” she shrugged, “but you’ll do to beget his heirs. Now, he can’t call me a silly female any longer, and I can have my children back. Maybe he will give me an allowance so I won’t have to live with Mother or marry anyone I don’t wish to marry.”

  The rest of Sarah’s chatter became a distant buzz in Ninian’s ears. The earl knew. He would be here any day.

  He couldn’t take her away. She couldn’t leave Wystan. Especially not now.

  She thought she heard the ghost howl at the thought.

  ***

  Was he reading this right? Could it possibly be true?

  Drogo struggled through Sarah’s illegible, cross-hatched letter again, threw it on his desk, and stalked to the window to stare out at London’s nightly fog. He jammed his hands in his coat pockets and clenched them into fists. He gritted his teeth and wrestled with the wildness pounding at the jaded walls of his heart.

  He had to have misread. Sarah would do anything to move out of her mother’s house. Or she had thought of a new scheme to get even with him for unleashing her mother’s rage. He and Sarah had a long history of seeking revenge on each other.

  But he knew beneath the bombast, Sarah only sought his approval.

  Terror slithered in through a hitherto unknown crack in his guard. He must have misread Sarah’s chicken scratching. He needed to reread it, prevent another dashing of his hopes. He didn’t think he could survive another fall from the cliffs.

  Joseph wandered in, trailed by his younger brother, David—the eldest two of his biblical trio of half brothers. Drogo wished his stepmother, Ann, would keep a tighter rein on her sons, but she hadn’t even insisted that they complete their schooling after they’d been heaved out countless times for frolics too inventive for their own good.

  “There’s a new orchestra at Vauxhall,” David suggested hopefully.

  Drogo couldn’t pull himself out of his fog to reply. Sar
ah’s letter seemed to grow larger and more demanding the longer he let it lie there.

  “Could I have the colors Joseph doesn’t want?”

  David had never been as insouciant as Joseph. He’d always fought for attention in the tumultuous upheaval of the Ives household, and he’d learned to do it well. At eighteen, he was taller and broader than Joseph and faster to come to blows.

  He’d have to leave his brothers on their own if he returned to Wystan.

  The dread rising in Drogo’s soul had naught to do with his brothers. He turned and picked up Sarah’s letter.

  “You can join the cavalry after you’ve completed your education,” he answered absently, staring at the paper in his hand. Was that an “m” or an ink blot in front of “other”? “Ninian, mother”? Was she telling him Ninian had adopted Lydie’s child?

  “Ain’t that Sarah’s letter? Is she coming home yet?” Joseph wandered over and tried to look over Drogo’s shoulder. “She never did learn how to spell.”

  Maybe that was it. Maybe she had misspelled something and it had come out “child.” What could she be saying here? Chilled?

  “There’s no sense in going to Oxford if I take colors,” David protested, pacing the study. “I just need to know how to sit a horse and point a musket.”

  “And look good in a uniform,” Joseph added sarcastically, giving up on the letter and helping himself to the sweetmeats in Drogo’s desk.

  “You’ll gain promotions faster if you can at least write a letter better than your sister,” Drogo muttered, collapsing in his chair and muddling through another sentence. They’d done what? Held Ninian captive? That didn’t make sense. He shuddered to think of it. What sounded like “captive”? Or looked like? Cap? Tiv? Tin. Captain. They held Ninian captain?

  “Girls don’t need to write,” David declared disdainfully. “She ain’t had any teaching. I could write better than that when I was in leading strings.”